


didn't wanna catch a feeling

by doofusface



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, BUT IT'S GONNA END HAPPY PROMISE, F/M, Falling In Love, Fluff and Humor, Friendship, Gen, Lost Love, Meet-Cute, New Year's Eve, Roommates, sometimes you try to set your friends up on a date and sometimes the universe does it for you
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-22
Updated: 2019-05-06
Packaged: 2020-01-23 17:56:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18554857
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doofusface/pseuds/doofusface
Summary: She grins, bordering on a smirk. “If we survive ‘til the end of the party, and you’re not a total psycho, I’ll concede to using the photobooth they rented out.”





	1. let me tell you how it happened

**Author's Note:**

> s/o to polaroid by jonas blue, et al for the title and main plot bunny
> 
> anyway most of this is done, i just thought it read better in parts sooo here we are

Peter’s not entirely sure why he came, other than his two roommates did and that meant he couldn’t watch the next episodes of _The Man in the High Castle_ by himself without feeling both guilt (for going ahead) and slight boredom (at the lack of unsolicited commentary).

Sure, Ned was going to help Betty help Liz make sure nothing got wrecked, and Flash was DJing the entire night, and that meant Peter was _one hundo_ kickin’ it alone like a sad pup, but at least he wasn’t wallowing alone at home on New Year’s Eve, right?

Heck, if he didn’t have to use his vacation days to work on his thesis, he would at least be home with May, but _c'est la vie_ , y’know?

“It’s a big place, so don’t get lost, _please_ ,” Betty had told him at the outset, kindly, even if her words were chosen to remind him of the first time their group went to Europe and he _somehow_ got lost in their two bedroom AirBnB.

( _There was a secret door, okay?_ )

“I’m sticking to the first floor, Bets, don’t worry,” Peter had said, nodding along.

“Isn’t your roommate here?” Ned then said, looking at his girlfriend.

“Baby, it’s Liz’s parents’ house,” Betty snorted. “Of _course_ she’s here.”

“No, no— _Jones_.”

“Oh!” Betty said, and Peter _knew_ , because this B-plot to his story was _three-and-a-half years_ in the making.

“Yeah, she should be here,” she said, grinning and looking at Peter again, mischief written all over her face. “Want me to find her?”

And then Peter said, “If it was gonna happen, I _think_ it would’ve already,” gave some excuse about the bathroom, and skedaddled the _heck_ outta there.

So, anyway:

He’s lost.

He _thinks_ he’s on the first floor, but the minimalism of the house could be playing tricks on him, really. And, like, there’s a _Horde That Kills Mufasa_ -amount of people scrambling to find food, drinks, and people to kiss at midnight.

Peter is of the first two categories, if not only the first.

(He really shouldn’t’ve scarfed down the rest of his sandwich instead of saving it for tomorrow.

Drat.)

“On your six,” someone says from behind, nudging him forward with gentle force.

“Uh,” he says, chin tucked as he moves towards the closed sliding doors suddenly in front of him.

(Betty’s gonna kill him five times over for getting lost.

And Ned’s gonna _laugh_.)

He stops just shy of the closed glass, and the perpetrator of his almost-accident shows herself to his side—a mug-wielding, beanie-wearing, curly-haired girl his age in a Joan of Arc shirt and a thick, knit sweater hanging off her gangly frame.

The first thing Peter thinks is: _That mug is steaming and about to spill._

The second is: _Why is she going outside in this weather?_

“Hey, uh, it’s cold outside,” he says, concern etched on his face and accented by his outstretched hands—one to steady the mug, the other to block the path.

The girl turns, her beanie boasting _HARVARD_ in bold, white letters.

He realizes his—proverbial, thankfully—butt’s about to be handed to him two seconds too late.

The girl squints at him, dark eyes piercing and pinning him down. “It’s winter.”

“…Yes.”

“Okay. So it’s cold, in general.”

“…Yes.”

“So one would know that it’s _probably_ cold _outside_.”

“…I just mean, like,” Peter flounders, not sure what he means, “uh, just—you don’t have a coat.”

She squints harder; says nothing as she takes a page out of a cat’s handbook, reaching out for the doors slowly while maintaining—unnerving, _un_ thankfully—eye contact with him.

All they’re missing is an annoying _creak_ , but the Toomes residence is too new and fancy for that to happen, so Flash’s new electro-pop mix plays in the background as a bouncy, insufficient substitute.

Harvard keeps staring him down—literally, she’s taller—as she inches to the now-open doors.

Peter pulls off his sweater quickly, hair mussed as he hands it to her. “C’mon, seriously—it’s like, twenties.”

She blinks, freeze-framing.

“You don’t wanna get hypothermia.”

 _Snort_ , as she visibly recovers. “Or do I?”

“It’s not a fun time,” Peter says, an easy smile on his face. “Trust me.”

The door’s already open and he feels the breeze coming through, half-blocked by her form.

“If I take your sweater,” she says with a blank face, sipping from her steaming mug, “how’re you gonna hang out with me?”

“I’m a walking heater,” he says, suddenly nervous in a different way.

“…Are you trying to say you’re hot?”

“I—no, not—I’m just—I have a _high body temperature_ —”

 _Snickering_ cuts him off, a smirk now plastered on Harvard’s face. “I’ll take it, I’m actually freezing. Just promise not to die.”

“Yup, def, uh-huh,” Peter stammers, holding her mug as she layers his sweater on her own.

Somewhere behind them, he hears the beginnings of a dance battle.

By the sound of it, Ned’s _definitely_ winning.

“You stayin’ in there?” the girl asks, taking her mug back. _Sip_. “I think I can buy four minutes out here with this tea.”

Peter grins. “I say three.”

“Are you a med student or something?”

“Engineering.”

“So you don’t know what I know.”

“You’re medicine?” he asks with a pitch up in curiosity, following her as she steps farther into the balcony.

(He is definitely _not_ on the first floor.

 _Sorry, Betty!_ )

“No, but something else that requires research,” she says, finding the railing and leaning on it.

He joins her, the cold sting of metal hitting his forearms. “Cryptic.”

 _Shrug._ “I don’t know you.”

“ _Ah_ , I mean,” he says, holding the rails with his hands as he stretches back, balancing on his heels. “You _could_.”

Harvard snorts, raising a brow at him. “Was that a line? ‘Cause it sucked.”

“Not really,” Peter shrugs, leaning back forward. “My friends are too busy helping with the party, though, so sober company’s nice.”

“Ah, same boat, sweater loaner,” she says, raising her mug in his direction. “Guess we have that in common.”

He smiles, puts out his hand. “I’m—”

“ _Nope_ ,” she says, taking another sip. “I didn’t come here looking for someone, and judging by your overall look, neither did you.”

“ _Hey_.”

She raises a hand off the mug, waving cheekily. “Hello.”

“…You’re not wrong.”

“I know.”

“What are you doing here, then?”

“I like people-watching, and overworked, Ivy-league college seniors are best seen at parties.”

“Because they’re tipsy?”

“Because they’re _normal_.”

Someone starts a wave of cheering inside, making them both turn.

“My point,” the girl says, nodding to the door.

 _Sigh_ , as Peter shakes his head, turning back to her. “…So no names?”

“More fun if we can guess it.”

“Potentially dangerous.”

“Should I be worried? ‘Cause my brother’s a cop. Just so you know.”

“Nah, but _I_ might need backup.”

“Takes guts to ask for help,” the girl says, nodding approvingly. She hums, curls catching the faint light from inside as she sips whatever steaming drink’s in her hands. “Tell you what.”

Peter blinks. “What?”

“Exactly.”

He blinks again.

She grins, bordering on a smirk. “If we survive ‘til the end of the party, and you’re not a total psycho, I’ll concede to using the photobooth they rented out.”

“With me?” Peter says, pointing to himself.

“That was implied.”

“Can I _bargain_ for a name?”

“What, are you already in love with me?” she deadpans, grin still present, and well.

 _Kind of_ , he wants to say, but he can already hear Ned yelling at him in that exasperated, _Fake Angry_ way of his when he sees his friend doing something either _really_ questionable or _really_ stupid, assuming he wasn’t in on it himself.

So he says: “And you’re not? With me?”

The girl squints.

Purses her lips.

Stays quiet.

Lets the muted sounds of the current song fade and the next one pump into the speakers, before:

“You just might survive, Science Pun.”

“Really? We’re going off of t-shirts?”

“You can call me Joan.”

Peter smirks, offering his hand to shake. “Joan of Arc sounds cooler.”

She smiles, amused, and tilts her head to the side, loose curls falling past her face and over her shoulder. “Let the games begin.”

* * *

He likes her.

He’s probably in love with her, honestly, but he’s never known _Love At First Weird-Ass Conversation_ before so he’s not super sure.

They spend the next two hours roaming the house like it’s a lost city, freshly dug up and holding bountiful treasures if one dared look close enough, or were willing to traverse the oft-perilous waters of less-than-sober undergrad and grad students.

(At least there was a team of bouncer-bodyguards stationed around the house, just in case, courtesy of Mr. Toomes and his booming shipping business.)

Peter learns small things—personal still, but nothing on her location other than her Harvard beanie. Things like being able to down still-steaming tea the way children down candy, and somehow never bumping into people despite her long limbs and tall frame.

Joan of Arc of Harvard likes to munch on the ignored bits of brownies, stuck to the tin edges and otherwise considered trash. She trades summarized stories of going on summer road trips with her family to D.C., purely to visit the Smithsonian with his own stories of science camp and going home _early_ from science camp, because he missed his uncle and his aunt.

They snoop around the mostly empty third floor, and while she inspects the family photos displayed there, Peter finds a rack of DVDs and takes a photo to question Liz about why her family has three copies of the first _Spy Kids_ movie, all unwrapped.

The second floor is where they’d met, and he holds her hand to not get separated while they weave through jumping, dancing twenty-two-and-up-year-olds, and she doesn’t say anything when they make it to a little alcove and their hands are still twined.

On the first floor, he worries about running into his friends, but Joan of Arc is a real hero—or telepathic—because every time he catches sight of Flash, or Ned, or Betty, or Liz, the girl turns sharply down another way, and that’s how they manage to get four helpings of dessert— _undetected_ —before the night is over.

They hang out in the backyard for a few minutes, arm pressing into arm as they stand side-by-side to keep warm, talking idly about _Star Wars_ and Jane Austen and the superiority and pretentiousness associated with the color maroon.

He notes that she smells sweet and flowery, and her hand is the warmest thing in existence, and he really, _really_ thinks she’s some kind of beautiful, with her coded replies and curious eyes.

They get tired from the roaming and make a final run to the desserts before heading back upstairs to get a good view of the fireworks from the community’s country club.

Unlike the start of their adventure, the floor’s now _packed_.

“ _GET READY, CAMBRIDGE!_ ” Flash yells into the mics, speakers relaying the enthusiastic message to the rest of the home. “ _WE ABOUT TO BRING IT INNNN!_ ”

Peter sees his companion flinch at the sound. “You good?”

“This dude’s got bad trills,” she says, eye twitching slightly.

Oh, if only she knew how right she was.

Flash’s shower singing is…a true experience, to say the least.

There is a _reason_ Peter dropped serious cash for the highest quality earplugs.

Flash continues his hyping, and aside from the weird offshoots, he’s doing pretty darn well.

Peter’s kinda proud of him.

“Do you think the security peeps have someone to kiss at midnight?” Joan of Arc asks suddenly, and Peter turns to find her squinting at one such guard at the back of the hall.

“Why? Are you volunteering?” he teases, squeezing her hand as he leans in closer so she can hear.

“I don’t plan on kissing _anyone_ , so don’t go getting any ideas, SP,” she throws back easily, a light smirk on her lips.

Peter puts his free hand over his heart. “My aunt and uncle taught me better than that.”

She raises their linked hands, chewing the inside of her cheek to smother her growing smile. “I know.”

“ _FIFTEEN_!” the people around them start yelling—some slurred, some confused, some sing-songy.

They _feel_ the countdown from their spot on the third floor, the atrium in the middle of the home booming an echo and chorus of tens, nines, and eights before they can get to the staircase.

At one, strangers all around them lean in to kiss each other in pairs, but the two of them join the initial cheer instead.

Then…

They make the mistake of catching each other’s eye, the deafening yells and whoops surrounding them in slow motion, and he’s leaning in, and she is, too, and…

Someone crashes through them, stumbling down onto the strategically placed bean bag at the bottom of the stairs, and Joan of Arc bursts into laughter, and Peter can’t help but join her.


	2. flashin' light

It’s ten-past-one when the crowd starts dispersing, partied out and suddenly aware of projects due after break.

(A bunch of overachieving nerds. Every single one.)  

“End of the road,” Peter says, smiling at the girl still holding his hand.

(She looks sleepy and has, progressively, loosened up with the dark of night—he’d caught her smiling absentmindedly at him and a few happy-looking friend groups and couples just minutes before, all sappy and hopeful for the new year.

He really didn’t mean to fall in love tonight, and he’s kinda screwed for the rest of all time.)

“Deal’s a deal, SP,” Joan of Arc says with a stifled yawn, shaking him from his reverie and dragging him behind as she beelines it to the photobooth hidden away at the back of the living room.

If Peter hadn’t been weaving through the party with her all night he wouldn’t have noticed her now, effortlessly blending her tall frame, somehow, into the nothingness between people and between food and drink.

And hey, when did she grab that piece of toast?

“When did you grab that piece of toast?”

“Same time you nicked a soda from the fridge.”

“I didn’t nick a soda. It was juice in a can.”

“My observational skills deplete when I’m out for too long.”

“You just need to draw from the Force.”

“I thought we both agreed I wouldn’t be Force-sensitive?” she asks with a turn and a tilt of her head as they plant their feet in front of the classic photobooth.

“Maybe you’re just a late bloomer,” Peter says cheekily, holding the curtain open for her and tugging her hand forward. “Ladies first.”

“I’m letting that one go because you’re nice,” she says, blandly sticking out her tongue at him. She spins before sitting to adjust her arm, hand still connected to his, dragging him down with her. “Which filter, Cinderella?”

He scrunches up his face. “It’s already past midnight.”

“Would you prefer ‘Prince Charming’?”

“ _Actually_ —”

She shoves him, weak but deliberate. “Smartass.”

“Everyone here is.”

“…Point, SP.”

 _I love you_ , he thinks, pointing at the filter with superhero masks on. “This one.”

“You sure? One shot to capture how I look,” she jokes, quirking a brow.

“I won’t forget you,” he blurts out, and a smile blooms on her face, twitching up her lips and scrunching up the skin by her eyes.

And it’s true.

It’s so, so true.

“…I think it’s got a timer,” she says softly, barely above a whisper, unable to look away. She gently nudges his arm with her elbow, smile disappearing and reappearing on loop while her lips figure out how to quit twitching.

Peter wants to know how a bland photobooth light manages to make her look like a master’s painting or a sculpture fit for the Louvre.

…And how to make his heartbeat slow down.

“Yeah,” he manages, swallowing to clear his throat, “sounds right.”

“You’re A-OK, SP,” Joan of Arc says, turning away to choose the filter. “Ready?”

He leans back, runs his hand through his hair absentmindedly.

When she faces him again, he’s grinning like a dope.

When she faces him again, he says, “ _Hell yeah_.”

* * *

They’re a mess of limbs and laughter by the end of it, leaning on each other or doubled over as party-goers mill about outside, foot traffic slowing as the night goes on in the following minutes.

It’s too fast—the _clicks_ and _flashes_ end in quick succession, and they’re up and out of the booth before Peter can notice Joan of Arc picking up the strip of photos from a small dispenser.

He tilts his head. “What are you—?”

She takes the Sharpie tied to a string on the photobooth door, signs her name at the back of the lower two pictures, and hands it to him. “You earned it.”

“Michelle,” he reads, reverent if not wildly smiling.

“And yours,” Michelle says, handing him the Sharpie.

He grins, quickly scrawling his own name, ripping and handing the top pictures back to her.

She nods, lips downturned for a brief second. “That fits.”

“You think?”

“Pretty generic, but makes sense.”

“You’re dodging.”

“If I say your name, I’m acknowledging this night didn’t suck.”

He frowns. “Did it?”

There’s a flash of something in her eyes; a quick blink back of emotion before she recovers, throws back the curtain of mysteriousness that seems to follow her around the room. “I—sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. It _didn’t_ suck.”

“Oh.”

“It—” _Sigh_. “—okay, it was pretty…great. Objectively.”

Peter can’t shove off the grin. “Objectively?”

She squints, frowning for real. “Mmk, P—”

_AND IIIII WILL ALWAAAAYS LOOOO—_

“Saved by the bell,” Michelle smirks, picking up her phone. “Hey, yeah—yeah, I’ll be out in a sec. Thanks—yep, uh-huh. Love you, too.”

Peter deflates, the feeling of her hand in his suddenly evaporating from memory.

“My roommate’s hellbent on me driving her home,” Michelle says, noticing his posture. “So.”

“Oh,” he says, sagging less.

“Yep.”

“Roommate?”

“ _Just_ roommate.”

He should say something.

Ask for her number.

Ask for her surname.

Anythi—

“Thanks again, SP,” she says with a stilted nod, moving quick and close to give him a peck on the cheek. “And happy New Year.”

He turns _red_.

She coughs. “…Okay, bye,” she says, pivoting and sneaking away while he’s dumbstruck, planted in place even though he wants to run after her, wants to know _more_ about this stranger with a familiar soul.

He doesn’t know how much time passes before his phone plays the _Imperial March_ at way too loud for—

“It’s already _three_?” he asks the empty hallway, Ned’s scrunched up face greeting him as he checks his phone. He slides the answer button. “Hey, man.”

“ _You got lost, didn’t you?_ ”

“I didn’t get lost, I just, uh—”

“ _Dude_.”

“—Okay, maybe at the start I was like, maybe 92% lost, but now I’m 0% lost, I promise.”

“ _Sure, dude—if you can make it to the entrance to help with cleanup, I’ll believe you._ ”

* * *

“Dang, you didn’t get lost?” Ned says with wide eyes blinking, jaw slack in surprise. “What! Who are you and what did you do with my best friend?”

“New year, new me,” Peter says nonchalantly, arms outstretched to his sides.

“You’re my witness,” Liz says, popping out of a side hall and handing Ned a half-filled garbage bag. “Got everything from the guest room.”

“Thanks!” Ned says before nodding at Peter. “B-R-B, I gotta haul this outside.”

“Ned’s the best of us all,” Liz says matter-of-factly, broom in hand as she returns to a corner covered in fallen confetti.

Peter spins in place, catching sight of Flash packing up his equipment at the middle of the atrium. _Hmm_. “…Where’s Betty?”

“She has a make up class tomorrow morning so she left right after,” Liz says, turning and looking him over. “You okay? You look like you ran a marathon.”

He feels the photos in his pocket; they burn, sear.

There’s an ache in his chest, now, and he recognizes his old friend.

_Regret._

“Yeah,” Peter smiles, lying through his teeth as he picks up a rag and starts wiping down a column. “I’m great.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dundunDUUUUUUUUNNNNNNN


	3. i'll be looking...

Peter hides the photos in a box, under a stack of books at the top of his closet.

That’s his master plan for forgetting Michelle, and it works about as well as catching a whale with a plastic bucket.

He wonders why he doesn’t come clean and tell Ned and the others as soon as possible, but something stops him every time—a passing car on the road, an incoming call in the hall, a bird…ah, _blessing_ someone’s—Liz’s—new winter coat.

It drags on for most of the first few months in the year, and he psychs himself out—tells himself maybe it isn’t something to pursue, and argues that it wouldn’t be fair to Michelle.

Besides, she’s in a researching track—if she wanted to find him, she probably could. He dropped plenty of clues, and he definitely isn’t hiding.

So her not letting herself step into his life right now was probably a sign that she didn’t want him in hers.

* * *

…But then, some days, he wonders if it’s a reverse psychology deal going on here, and _he_ ’s supposed to find _her_.

And, annoyingly, those days always fall on group study hangouts at Liz and Betty’s dorm suite. 

In the middle of a conversation.

That he should’ve been listening to.

“—aaaand, he’s definitely not with us,” Ned sighs, leaning over the edge of the bed to wave a hand in front of Peter’s face. “ _Earth to Peter_ —we need your vote, man.”

 _Blink._ “Uhh…soda?”

“Soda and nuclear physics it is,” Liz says, jotting down a note as if the answer weren’t totally out of place.

“Funny,” Peter says.

“Head in the game, Parker,” she smirks, tapping her pen on her notebook. “But really: nuclear physics or anthropology?”

“I thought you were taking law?”

“For my sister,” Flash says.

“Why are we picking your sister’s future?”

“Because she just FaceTimed and asked us to.”

“Linguistic or gen?”

“Forensic.”

Peter shrugs, stares back down at his textbook and pretends to read. “I vote anthro.”

“Told you,” Flash says smugly to the rest of them, leaning back. “Even Parker thinks it’s solid.”

“Under normal circumstances I’d accept it, but he wasn’t exactly listening for all the nuanced arguments,” Betty says, rolling her eyes.

“You just think I’m incapable of a good idea, Brant.”

Betty grins, sickeningly sweet. “Glad you noticed, Thompson.”

“ _Civil_ ,” Liz reminds them, a warning in her tone.

“Sorry,” they say in unison.

“Two for physics and four for anthro,” Ned announces, clacking away on his laptop. “Better tell her before the deadline tonight.”

“And—sent,” Flash says, locking his phone.

“Wait, why were there six votes?” Peter asks, quirking a brow.

“MJ,” Liz says, smirking. “See? You guys think alike, too.”

“Four of us voted anthro.”

“But only _you two_ used quick deduction versus bullet points.”

Peter rolls his eyes, the memory of a girl and her steaming mug rushing forward. He grabs the TV remote and sets the channel to mind numbing house renovations and raises the volume.

“Smooth distraction attempt,” Liz sighs, crossing her arms. She sits back down in her little corner, silently gesturing for anyone else to take over.

“Pete, seriously, even _Flash_ thinks you guys would hit it off,” Betty half-pleads, blocking the screen with her body tilting to the side. “ _One_ date.”

“You _do_?” is how Peter replies, brow raised high and gawking at Flash.

(Betty rolls her eyes, stealing the remote away and shutting off the TV.)

Flash shrugs, tips his head back, chugging his coffee. “Either you die from fear or fall in love.”

“So, about the same result,” Ned says, taking advantage of Peter’s blocked sightline.

“Eh.”

“You have _nothing_ to lose,” Liz says, law books open on her lap and the floor around her. “She’s smart, responsible, _and_ pretty.”

“Everything you wish you were,” Flash says, grinning and pointing at Peter.

Betty rolls her eyes. “Sometimes I forget you were an a—”

“We agreed not to call him that anymore,” Ned reminds her. “Or, y’know, we gotta pay him ten bucks.”

She points at Flash. “You are _so_ lucky I prefer group integrity over petty squabbles.”

“We’re going to pretend that’s true,” Liz says, looking back down at her books.

“ _Liz_!”

“Betty, you got into a debate with a professor last sem because of a misplaced adverb.”

“That’s on me, but it was finals, so it was also kinda _not_ on me,” she says, raising her brows briefly. “MJ’s on my side.”

“MJ’s got a minor in English, of _course_ she’s on your side.”

 _Huff_ , as Betty turns to Flash.“…Sorry.”

“Begrudging apology accepted,” Flash says, smirking.

“Don’t tempt fate, dude,” Ned says, concealing it in a yawn.

“Yeah, well, tell MJ I’m done with fate,” Peter says, stretching.

Betty raises a brow. “Someone’s been grumpy for a _while_.”

“I’m not grumpy,” he pouts.

“You’re not all there, either,” Liz says, crossing her arms.

“Been ditching Thursday night taco runs, too,” Flash frowns.

“And you said you didn’t miss him,” Ned snorts, turning to Peter. He scrunches his face. “But…yeah, man. Something’s up with you.”

“Just midterms,” Peter sighs. “Sorry I’ve been sucky.”

“Apology accepted,” Liz nods.

“Ditto,” Betty points.

“Double ditto!” Ned grins, folding paper.

“ _Pff_. Whatever,” Flash snorts.

Peter rolls his eyes. “Gee, I feel _so loved_.”

Ned throws a paper plane his way. “You should!”

“Time check?” Liz calls, already back at her books. “I think my phone is under here, but there’s no way I’m moving.”

Flash taps his phone. “Almost three,” he says, looking up. “Time to call for pizza?”

“ _Oof—_ I gotta go,” Peter says, swinging on his backpack. “I got lab. See you guys later.”

“No fair!” Flash yells, groaning. “You’re just ditching the blind date talk!”

“Dude, you had this class last sem. You know it’s real.”

“ _But_.”

Peter sighs, shoving his feet into his boots. “That’s just a bonus, okay?” He waves at the from the doorway, tossing a coat over himself haphazardly. “Don’t forget to drink water!”

“Don’t forget to double-check your liquids!” Liz and Ned yell back.

 _Click_ , as the door closes.

Ned turns to his friends, that years-long _sigh_ of an old man escaping him as he hunches forward, moving his laptop to the side. He flops, head lolling to the side. “He’s bummed about something. I can tell.”

“Baby, watch that pen,” Betty says, pointing by his head. “Cap’s off--if you get my sheets stained, I swear--”

 _Jangling_.

Liz tosses her head back, glaring at the ceiling. “…You’re joking.”

_Click!_

“What?” MJ says, walking into the room, backpack stuffed to the brim and bursting with books and loose papers. “No greeting? Did someone die?”

“You _just_ missed Parker,” Betty groans, head in hand.

MJ snorts. “You have way too much homework to be matchmaking, B.” She nods at the boys. “Fellas. Thesis still running?”

“Workin’ out the kinks, but this thing is Flash-proof,” Ned says, grinning.

“Many ways to take that.”

“Don’t make it weird, MJ.”

“Edward, it’s like you don’t know me.”

“That would be a boring time,” Ned pouts, considering an alternate timeline.

“Amen to that,” Flash says, still staring at his laptop. “…And to hell with _this_ ,” he adds, flopping backwards on the floor and digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I hate running on empty.”

“You got eight hours last night,” Ned says with a straight face.

“Two hours short, Leeds.”

“Okay, grandpa.”

“Shape up, Thompson,” MJ says, claiming her spot by Betty’s bed—right where Peter had sat.

(If there is a collective inner groan, there is no outer one.)

Betty squints at her. “How’d you…how’d you manage to _miss_ him? In the hallway? It’s like a yard wide.”

“I don’t know,” MJ shrugs. “Maybe he took the back way? Or the elevator?”

“ _Ugh._ ”

“You still use the stairs, huh?” Ned says, leaning back on his hands.

“After you guys got stuck in D.C.? I’d walk up a skyscraper,” MJ blanks, setting up shop with her papers.

“I wish your room wasn’t in a corner,” Flash says, sighing and facepalming.

Liz rolls her eyes. “Yeah, right.”

“You like our views and you know it,” Betty says.

“Better than our place,” Flash snorts.

“Sucks when the ‘rents stop giving you everything you ask for, huh?” MJ blanks.

“Hello, 911? I got a murder to report,” Ned snickers, high-fiving MJ.

“I hate you,” Flash says.

“Okay,” MJ says, grinning.

“I do!”

She cracks a book open, bookmarked page somewhere in the back half. _Scritch, scratch_ of her pencil as she circles and underlines words and phrases every few sentences. “Sure.”

“Whatever,” Liz says, huffing in her little alcove. She rolls her eyes and looks at Flash. “She’s just deflecting.”

“ _Mhm_ ,” MJ says, eyes on her book. “Glad you noticed.”

“Boring,” Betty says, plopping her cheek to her propped-up hand. “Back to work, I guess.”

MJ hums again.

Ned sighs, reloading a page. “You’re _no fun_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> <3

**Author's Note:**

> :>
> 
> im on [tumblr](https://doofwrites.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/doofwrites) if ya wanna yell! thanks in advance and God bless ya crazy kids!!


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